by Jens Lapidus
Also by Jens Lapidus
Easy Money
Never Fuck Up
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Translation copyright © 2014 by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House LLC
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pantheon Books, a division of Random House LLC, New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, Penguin Random House companies. Originally published in Sweden as Livet Deluxe by Wahlstrom & Widstrand, Stockholm, in 2011. Copyright © 2011 by Jens Lapidus.
Pantheon Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lapidus, Jens, [date]
[Livet deluxe. English]
Life deluxe / Jens Lapidus; translated from the Swedish by
Astri von Arbin Ahlander.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-307-37750-0 (hardcover : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-307-90851-3 (eBook)
1. Organized crime—Fiction. 2. Criminals—Sweden—Fiction. 3. Undercover operations—Fiction. I. Ahlander, Astri Von Arbin, translator. II. Title.
PT9877.22.A65L5913 2014 839.73’8—dc23 2014002930
www.pantheonbooks.com
Jacket design by Peter Mendelsund
v3.1
For Jack and Flora
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part I Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part II Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Epilogue
A Note About the Author
A Note About the Translator
“You West Side. You musta heard of Charlie Sollers, right?”
“No.”
“Goes all the way back to Franklin and Fremont. I mean all the way back to the sixties and shit.”
“Sollers?”
“Sold heroin like it was water. I mean, the motherfucker made himself some money.”
“I don’t know who the fuck you are talking about.”
“I know you don’t. And the police don’t. And the stick-up boys wouldn’t have a fucking clue either. ’Cause Charlie Sollers just sold dope. No profile. No street rep. Just buy for a dollar, sell for two.”
—PROPOSITION JOE TALKING TO STRINGER BELL
THE WIRE, SECOND SEASON
PROLOGUE
It was the second time in my life that I visited Stockholm for a job.
The first time I was here for a wedding, as a bodyguard for one of the guests. That was seventeen years ago, and I was young then. I remember how I looked forward to the day after, when I could party in Stockholm and bed some blondes. The wedding itself was a large affair compared to the ones in my home country. They said it was considered big even for Sweden—there were maybe three hundred guests. And sure, it was grand. The newlyweds emerged from the church dressed in winter furs. They had a small child too, a pretty girl, who was also wearing a fur. The bridal couple were driven from the church in a sled pulled by four white horses. Their little girl stood with her nanny on the church steps and waved. The air was clean, the snow glittered, and the sky was clear. I remember what I thought at the time: that Sweden must be the cleanest country in the world. Then I saw the guests’ faces. Some showed joy and others admiration. But they all expressed one thing: respect.
The man who was married then was the person I was here to take care of now: Radovan Kranjic. Fateful irony, to have seen the beginning of the new life that I was now going to end.
I usually don’t let myself feel. No, I kill myself before every mission. I am hired, paid, independent—there is nothing personal about what I do. But to come to Stockholm this time around gave me a sense of completion, somehow.
The circle would be closed. A kind of balance would be restored.
And then something happened.
I’d been staking out in the Volvo all day. When I returned to my room, I decided to clean my handguns. I’d purchased them in Denmark, where I have connections—after the Americans’ so-called war on terrorism, I don’t pack heat when traveling into the EU anymore.
I had an Accuracy International L96AI—a finer-grade sniper rifle—and a Makarov gun. I took them apart and laid them on a cover on the bed, clean and gleaming. I was holding the final weapon, a revolver, in my hand.
That was when the door opened.
I realized that I’d forgotten to lock it, like I normally always do.
It was a housekeeper. I wondered what kind of crap hotel I was staying at, anyway, where the staff didn’t knock before entering.
She stared at my weapons for a few seconds. Then she apologized and began to back out into the hallway.
But it was too late—she’d already seen too much. I rose, raised the revolver, and asked her to step into the room.
She looked terrified. Understandably—that was my intention, after all. I told her to pull the cleaning cart with her into the room as well, and then I closed the door behind her. I kept my weapon aimed at her the entire time. Then I had her clean my room.
It took her max ten minutes—it was obvious that she was a pro. She vacuumed the small floor area, wiped off all surfaces, and washed the sink and toilet. It was important to me that it was done thoroughly.
Meanwhile I packed my bag.
When she was finished, I asked her to look out into the hallway and see if anyone was out there. It was empty. I pushed her in front of me out into the hallway and told her to unlock the door to another room. She chose one that was two doors down.
We entered it. The room was messy. The person staying there apparently took pleasure in torturing hotel housekeepers.
I closed the door.
I held up a pillow.
Then I raised the revolver and shot her through the pillow. In the eye.
PART I
1
The strip club on Roslagsgatan’d been rented out. Jorge eyed the place: red spotlights in the ceiling, velvet armchairs on the floor, and neon Heineken ads on the walls. Round tables with candle wax stains, beer stains—he didn’t want to guess what other kinds of stains. A bar along one side of the room, a DJ in one corner, a small stage along the other side. The strip pole was still chick-free. But behind the bar: four babes flaunting more skin than clothes were pouring out bubbly. Soon they’d be boa-constricting themselves around the pole. Baring it all for the bros.
The feel of the place wasn’t exactly mad deluxe. But who gave a fuck—the crowd made the mood. Jorge recognized alotta faces. Had arrived at the joint with his cousin Sergio and his buddy Javier. He saw Mahmud farther in among the armchairs—hermano was sipping a glass of Moët. Bonding with his own buddies: Tom Lehtimäki, Rob, Denko, Birra.
Jorge nodded at Mahmud, winked. Signaled: I see you, bro. They needed to talk about tomorrow. J-boy could hardly wait. Something big might be in the works. A step back into G-life. Away from M-life. M as in muffins.
Jorge’d slept like shit last night. The whole thing: like Agent Smith against Neo. Darkness squaring off against the light. The Sven life wore him down. The dark side. At the same time, the thing they were gonna go see about—superfly. The good side would be given the chance—if they just made it to that meeting tomorrow, everything would work out.
Maybe.
“Yo, Shawshank!”
Jorge glanced to the side.
Babak was coming toward him. Open arms—fake smile. The Iranian hugged him. Pounded him on the back. Cut him with verbal knives. “How’s the café, bro? You sure the margins ain’t better on kebab than coffee?”
Jorge pulled his head back. Eyed the guy from a foot’s distance. Offered his gift: a bottle of Dom Pérignon 2002—apparently fancy as fuck.
Babak: Mahmud’s oldest homie. Babak: Iranian dealer guru with mad pussy juju and thick project bijoux—that’s how he saw himself, anyway. Babak had made the climb that Jorge’d once planned to make. Stolen the path that’d been paved for him. Started off down on the street, working corners. Learned the game. Understood the hood—how regular ghetto hustlers’d started using as much as the slickest Stureplan snobs, but with a dozen zeros added on. Figured the future. Blow today: more common with kids in their twenties than weed with the teens.
Could’ve been Jorge’s game. His jam. But it didn’t work out that way.
And today the Iranian was treating all his boys to a night out, at a club. Party with strippers, champagne, and free beer in the bar. Jorge’d been given the invite from one of Babak’s underlings. Printed in Gothic lettering: CELEBRATE LIKE A REAL BANDIT! I’M TURNING 25 AND TREATING YOU TO BUBBLES, BITCHES, AND BUFFET. THE RED LIGHT CLUB ON ROSLAGSGATAN. COME AS YOU ARE.
Babak’s attitude: irritating like a mosquito bite on your ass. The glitter in the Iranian’s eye. His tone of voice: like being spit in the face. The little clown knew that Jorge and Mahmud slaved away every day like Romanian whores on a Saturday night. Knew they didn’t flip even half as much paper in a month as he did in a week. Knew the Yugos were sucking extra cash out of them for their protection. Certain: he knew the tax man was chasing them with a blowtorch. A hundred percent: Cunt-Babak clocked that café life wasn’t cutting it for J-boy.
What Jorge couldn’t understand was why Mahmud didn’t just break his nose and then their friendship. It was all kinds of fucked up.
But wackest of all was what Babak’d just called him: Shawshank. That name … honestly, Jorge couldn’t take it. Shawshank—what bullshit. Babak was beating on a broken brother. Pushed the knife in further for an extra twist, sprinkled chili on his wounds.
It had been almost five years since Jorge’d broken out of the Österåker Pen. Sure, a lot of blattes out there’d heard his story a thousand times. A legend among the ants in the public housing hill. A story you dreamed about when the cement in the cell walls threatened to suffocate you. But also, just like all stories: the boys out there knew how it ended. The Latino, the legend, J-boy, Shawshank—been forced to crawl back in. Like a loser. Freedom, adiós. It was a shitty story.
And Babak never missed a chance to remind him.
A couple of BMC guys were hanging out in the bar: leather vests like black uniforms. One percent tags, MC Sweden badges, and the Fat Mexican on their chests and backs. Tattoos on their necks, forearms, around their eyes. Jorge knew a few of those hustlers. Not exactly café owners, but nice enough. But he knew what the nine-to-fivers thought when they saw those guys. As if it were written with flashing letters on their vests—one feeling: fear.
He shook Babak.
Farther in by the side of the stage he saw the cousins and relatives. Small, downy-lipped Babak clones. For them, being at the same party as half of Bandidos MC Stockholm was like being at an ill celebrity throwdown.
One dude started walking toward Jorge. Silhouette: like a monkey. Overly broad shoulders, arms that reached far down on his thighs. The guy: Anabola-beefy, but he’d apparently forgotten about his legs—they stuck out at the bottom like two snort straws.
It was Peppe. A pen pal from Österåker.
Jorge hadn’t seen him since.
Peppe was wearing a vest. On the left side of his chest: the word Prospect. He was obviously becoming big time.
“Yo, my brotha!” They embraced. Jorge was careful not to touch the vest with his hands. Unnecessary to mess with the rules of the one percenters.
“What’s up, ma brotha? You getting pussy these days?” Peppe said.
The guy was probably a racist to the core, but still—his Million Program Swedish was tight. Jorge laughed. The dude still had the same sense of humor.
Jorge responded, “It happens, ma brotha, it happens.” He pronounced ma brotha the same way as Peppe. And then he said, “I see you got yourself a vest.”
“Fuck man, you know how much pussy I get with this thing? It’s crazy, man.”
“What, you keep the vest on?”
Peppe: poker face.
Jorge was about to say something. Stopped. Eyed Peppe. The guy was glaring at him.
Finally, “Don’t joke about the vest.”
Jorge didn’t give a fuck. Some dudes took their colors too seriously.
But after ten seconds, Peppe grinned again. “Leather in the sack isn’t my thing. But you tried handcuffs? Real nice, man.”
They laughed together.
His Bandidos buddy changed the subject, kept letting his mouth run. Smart schemes in the construction business. Tax fraud, invoice forgeries, under-the-table pay. Jorge nodded along. It was interesting. It was important. He even thought about asking Peppe for help with the Yugos. At the same time, he knew the rules: everyone takes care of their own shit.
And the entire time: he couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Jorge downed his glass of champagne.
The day after. Bag-feeling under his eyes. Hangover pounding through his head. Breath like a turd dipped in lighter fluid. Still: a kind of relaxation. With his best friend, Mahmud. On their way to Södertälje. On their way to what might be the most important meeting in J-boy’s life.
It was two-thirty in the afternoon. Him and the Arab in their car. Or really: the car was owned by their café company. One of the advantages: so much shit that could be bought on the company dollar. Cell phones, computers, DVDs, 3D WiFi Full LED TVs. Like, everything—that’s what they thought, anyway. But as it turned out, that’s not what the tax man thought.
They were on their way to something big. The big thing at the top of the criminal hierarchy. The concrete was crawling with success stories: the Hallunda coup, the Arlanda heist, the helicopter robbery. And everyone knew that not alotta people were in the know about the planning,
that only a few people were sitting on the recipes. But Jorge’d gotten an in.
And that was who they were gonna go see now. Someone who knew how it was done. A brain.
It’d started to rain, winter was losing its grip.
Mahmud turned the seat-heater off. “My balls get too hot, man. You can go sterile and shit.”
“What, babydaddy, you got plans? Who you gonna knock up? Beatrice?”
Mahmud turned around. “Beatrice is good at selling lattes, but she’d probably be a worthless mom.”
“Fuck, hermano, she ain’t good at selling coffee either. We should hire someone new.”
“Yeah, but no one too fine. Can’t deal with that.”
They drove past IKEA on their left. Jorge thought of his sister. Paola loved IKEA. She tried to decorate at home. Put up bookshelves that were impossible to figure out and took ages to screw together, nailed framed posters on the Sheetrock walls where the hooks always fell out after a few hours. Build a life. Blend in. But where did she really think it would get her? Trying to be a Sven wouldn’t make her a Swede.
She was naïve. Still: Jorge loved her and Jorgito like crazy.
Mahmud was blabbering on about Babak’s party the night before. Which one of the strippers’d had it poppin’. If Rob or Tom’d scored. If Babak or Peppe’d raked in the most dough. Jorge didn’t have the energy to listen to him—his constant worship of the Iranian.
Outside the window: the Tumba commuter rail station. A sign hung over the road: ALBY. Mahmud turned around again. “Those are my hoods, over there. You know that.”
“You fucking with me, man? You’ve got Alby inked over half your body. ’Course I know.”
“And now we’re going to Södertälje. That’s almost my hood too.”
“You been there before—so what?”
“What if I know this dude we’re seeing?”
“I don’t think so. Denny calls him the Finn. You don’t know any Finns other than Tom Lehtimäki, right?”
“No, but maybe he’s not a Finn. Maybe he’s from south of the city. You know, alotta shit went down a few years ago. The gang war against Eddie Ljublic and his people. So if the Finn’s from here, maybe he was involved. Then it’s a fifty-fifty chance he was on the wrong side. With the cunts.”